Working Title
by Onomatopeia Jones
Summary: It was extremely rare that Noah Puckerman met someone else whom he would truly consider a fellow 'bad-ass.' This new girl, Evan Johnson? Very, very bad-ass.


Three weeks.

Evan Johnson had been attending William McKinley High School for three weeks, and she'd already been bestowed the title, Ice Queen. Sometimes it was the even-more-flattering Ice Bitch. She supposed she had earned it. Evan stubbornly refused to admit she even had emotions, let alone show them, and she was rather cold, but it wasn't as though she didn't have a reason to be. She couldn't help but think that she wouldn't be such an 'ice' bitch if she didn't get frozen things thrown in her face on a semi-daily basis. As if on cue, David Karofsky and his merry band of idiots doused Evan with a 'slushie facial,' interrupting her thoughts. She sighed. At least the stain left by the Red Dye # 40 or whatever it was wouldn't be quite so obvious on her tie-dyed shirt. The football goons, as Evan had come to think of them, laughed, expecting Evan to cry or something like that. She refused to give them the satisfaction. (Things like that really lost their meaning over time, anyway.) As Evan calmly removed her glasses to clean the corn syrup and ice from the lenses, her movements were relaxed and unhurried. Unemotional. _Ice Bitch in action_, she thought to herself.

Placing her glasses back on her face, she glanced at Karofsky, the one who'd actually thrown the slushie, then up at Noah Puckerman, King of the Goons. She looked him square in the eye, keeping her signature stoic façade beautifully intact, except for one defiantly raised eyebrow. She wiped some slushie off her face with her index finger and tasted it.

"So considerate, you guys," she said, the slightest edge of sarcasm creeping into her calm, even tone. "Cherry. My favorite." Bold? Yes. Unexpected? Absolutely. Really stupid? Probably, but when had that ever stopped Evan before?

With that, she brushed past them, determined to find a bathroom. She didn't scurry off in shame or scootch past them with her metaphorical tail between her legs, though. She refused to let them know that their asinine juvenility (which she wasn't sure was actually a word) had any impact on her. She would NOT give in. She would not let them break her. High school in small-town America, she had learned, was all one huge power struggle. It was the top dogs (usually the resident Football Goons) versus… everyone else. To give it a bit of a Marxist spin, they were the bourgeousie and people like Evan, the nerds, the weirdos, the 'I-don't-GET-that-kid!'s were the proleteriat. Eventually, she'd be free of this stupid stuff and nonsense, but until then, she walked with her normal purposeful stride. She kept head held high and her demeanor cucumber-cool, as if she wasn't covered in artificially flavored coldness and didn't want to shove them all off a cliff. That incident made the fifth time that week. It was only Wednesday.

Evan entered the closest bathroom and noticed gratefully that she was alone. (So she thought.) It was a lot easier to pretend like she didn't care what those asshats did if the only person she had to convince was herself. She cleaned herself off quickly and efficiently, managing to get her head under the faucet to rinse her hair out. (Lots of practice.) She twisted her wet her into a sloppy bun and was just pulling her extra t-shirt over her head when she heard, "Why do you put up with it?"

She glanced up and met the sympathetic eyes of Quinn Fabray in the mirror. Great. Evan didn't mind her, but Quinn was one of those people who looked at Evan like she wanted to help her or something. Evan did not need or want help. She shrugged and slid her carefully folded, slushie-stained shirt into a plastic zip-loc bag, then turned to face the pregnant blonde. "Because in ten years, I'm going to be on the cover of National Geographic and those guys are going to be the check-out boys at Safeway or maybe Albertson's selling it. This," she said quietly, motioning to the zip-loc bag, her lips twisting up into a little bit of a smirk, "is the most power and superiority they're going to experience. I figure it would just be cruel to deny them that."

Quinn was a little shocked. Evan Johnson did not talk. Well, she talked in class if the teacher called on her, but Quinn hadn't seen Evan voluntarily speak to anyone at all since she got here. She really hadn't seen Evan make any sort of social contact. She stayed all closed up, and she didn't seem to fit in with anyone. That was why the jocks picked on her so much- she was new, she didn't seem to be 'normal,' and she had no friends. Quinn thought Evan was a little bit weird, too, and kind of a nerd, but no one deserved the torment that Puck and his crew heaped on her. Quinn felt sorry for Evan, and wanted to try to help her or something. Give her an ally in the school. Something. She figured it was weird pregnancy hormones making her feel maternal.

Evan cleared her throat. She was a little shocked herself. Where had that even come from? She had been actively avoiding social interactions for the last three weeks, and the little exchange with Quinn could almost be considered that. She hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder and gave Quinn a curt nod. She left abruptly. "Class," she called over her shoulder, by way of explanation.

What was wrong with her? She didn't want any friends. She was a rock. She was an island. She was a bad Simon and Garfunkel reference. She was late for German. She swore under her breath and hurried down the hallway, safe and clear of slushie-slinging Football Goons. Thank God.

A/N: So, I would love a beta-reader for this. Shoot me a PM or drop me a review if you're interested. (Of course, you drop me a review even if you aren't.) Constructive criticism ftw!

Disclaimer: Because I don't feel like getting sued, I'm going to state the obvious. I don't own Glee or any of its characters, blah blah blah. I'm not making any money off this, blah blah blah. This story has now been officially disclaimed.


End file.
